


Kiss With a Fist

by QueenBoo



Series: Beauty of A Secret [2]
Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Minor Angst, The sexual tension of cleaning blood of someone's face, care taking, from a tumblr prompt, the inherent romance of cleaning each others wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: Jones got into a bit of a scrap at work, Dan deals with the consequences.
Relationships: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Series: Beauty of A Secret [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919785
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Kiss With a Fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentOrator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentOrator/gifts).



> For my booshmate Mary, who deserves the world but also lots of sweet (and a tiny bit angsty) drabbles <3 
> 
> This was originally a prompt on Tumblr from @Silentorator! I liked it so much I expanded on it and brought it over here, to my collection of drabbles about Jones and Dan's relationship. 
> 
> This piece follows on from Watch Them Build a Friend Just Like you, and continues our journey to look in depth at Jones and Dan and what makes them tick. There will absolutely be more drabbles to come in this series, I really want to look at different points of their co-habitation and my own personal take on what they want and need from one another! (And pssst, if you have any prompts for me, I absolutely take them!)

“What the fuck happened to you?” 

Jones has to try very hard not to snap something scathing in response to that. So hard, in fact, that opening his mouth  _ at all _ seems like a bad idea. So he doesn't. He doesn’t even acknowledge that Dan has spoken as he continues his rather fruitless search through their bathroom cabinets. Bad enough he’s doing it one handed--the other pinching futilely at his nose--but the insistent  _ drip drip drip _ of his own blood is making an already untidy bathroom just downright messy. 

“You’re getting blood everywhere.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware, thanks.” Jones slams a drawer closed a tad harder than necessary in time with his snapped response. Together they make a sharp soundtrack to his discontent. 

Dan is smirking at him; seemingly unphased by the waspish tone of Jones’ voice. Or the heavy scowl he knows he’s wearing like a deterrent for any further conversation. Hell, the snapped sarcasm looks to be the best thing the other man had heard all day. The way he lights up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sound of Jones’ irritation borders on psychopathic; yet not surprising. In their short acquaintance he already understands Dan is a creature that feeds on the negativity of those around him. 

Jones should perhaps be more concerned how  _ little  _ this personality trait of Dan’s bothers him. 

“It’s in the kitchen.” The older man announces, tone dripping with how an  _ ‘I told you so’  _ sounds. Superior. Conceited. Generally, up one’s own arse about being correct. 

Jones barely finds the patience to stop his frantic searching and lift his head to stare at his new housemate. “What is?” 

“The first aid kit.” 

The blank stare morphs into as much disbelief as his battered expression can manage. “What the fuck’s it doing in there?” 

“ _ You  _ put it in there after you cut yourself trying to slice the sleeves off that shirt.” Dan reminds him, one eyebrow climbing to a peak. There it is again, the self-satisfaction of a man proven right. “And I said you needed to put it back and you said--”

“Fuck off, Dan.” And yeah, he  _ did _ remember doing that two (maybe three?) days ago. And he  _ perhaps  _ remembered Dan warning he would only lose it if he didn’t put it back where it belonged. But in his defence, he was having a rough few days and caffeine could only do so much for you when you were as desensitised to it as Jones was. 

It doesn’t stop him kicking out in his frustration, the side of their bathtub being his intended target. The side panel is left with a pretty impressive dent after being met with the toe of his shoe. 

“Wait here.” Dan orders, and his amusement is palpable. He disappears from the bathroom doorway. 

Jones has no other option but to wait. He sags to the side of the tub, tilts his head back to the ceiling and pinches his nose a bit harder, enough that it begins to sting. The blood is all over both his hands by now, dripped onto his cream shirt, too. He was probably going to have to throw it away now - unless he got creative and managed to style it out into something fashionable. Yeah. That could work. 

Dan returns with the first aid kit in one hand, Jones already reaching out with the intention of taking it from him but the Northern berk just glares him down. In an act of barely witnessed kindness, he pulls disinfectant and cotton balls from the kit. An uncharacteristically gentle hand holds his head still by his chin and he begins carefully dabbing at Jones’ bloody face. 

“Again,” Dan asks, voice distant as he concentrates. “What happened?” 

“I didn’t start it.” 

“I never insinuated you did, but good to know.” Dan smirks at him knowingly. Tossing red soaked cotton aside and reaching for a fresh one. “Anything I should know about?” 

He pauses before moving in to clean him once more. Brown eyes boring into Jones' very soul the way they burn with questions and yet at the same time, there’s no hint of insistence there. Like he’s offering to listen but at the same time, doesn’t  _ expect  _ to be answered. Dan isn’t the kind to pry. Nearly a month sharing their living space has taught Jones that much. 

“Just an old  _ friend _ .” Is what Jones settles on, vague and a complete non-answer, but enough for Dan that the larger man continues on cleaning up his face. 

They exist in silence as he finishes. The only sound in the room is Jones’ ragged breathing, adrenaline still ebbing from his tense frame, and the occasional swish of disinfectant as Dan soaks a cotton ball with which to do more cleaning. 

Jones has no other choice but to start noticing things about the other man, things that this new proximity is giving him cause to notice. Like the fact he’s fairly sure the aftershave Dan is wearing is Old Spice. Or how this close he can pick out little flecks of golden brown in amongst the deep brown of his eyes. Dan’s got broad shoulders too, he’d never picked up on that until it was put in stark contrast to Jones’ own thin frame. 

But the most shocking this he comes to understand just as Dan retreats for a final cotton swab… For such a large and gruff man, Ashcroft has an incredibly gentle touch. 

As he goes about his caretaking business, delicate fingers will guide his head from side to side. A palm had cupped at his cheek to hold him still. All with the kind of attentiveness one normally applies to children and the frail. As if Jones himself was made of cracked glass and was in danger of shattering any moment. Presently, he circled those long fingers around Jones’ wrist and peels his arm away from his face--he can stop pinching his nose now, it seems, the blood flow had stopped--and yet even when the hand is safely out of the way, Dan continues to hold onto his wrist as if he had simply forgotten he needed to. 

Eventually, Dan takes a step back. He appraises Jones from head to toe, observing him like an art piece in some fancy gallery. Then declares, “Think you’re fine now.”

“Cheers.” Jones mutters. They both pretend not to notice the rasp he has to his tone; or at least they have the good grace to pretend it has everything to do with how little speaking he’d been doing since this whole ordeal had begun. 

And then nothing. 

Which would be fine. Had Dan chosen this moment to do literally anything else but speak; had he moved to clean up after them or maybe even just remove himself from the room as is typical Dan fashion. But he doesn’t. He just…. Remains. It’s a little bit like witnessing a soldier on watch, especially considering this is the most alert he has known the other man. 

Ever since moving in with Dan, a process which began and ended within the space of a few hours, Jones had come to realise that where Ashcroft was concerned, there was a whole new meaning to the word’s laid back. Dan was so laid back he was practically horizontal, and yet, freakishly enough, was also wound tighter than an antique clock. A walking (usually laying actually) contradiction if Jones had ever known one. 

He didn’t pay attention to the world around him enough to take notice of all that was brilliant and beautiful about it, no, instead his perception of reality only focused far enough to register the shit he could complain about. Which, of course, makes Jones incredibly worried to be on the receiving end of that laser sharp focus right now. 

“What you lookin’ at?” He gripes, still wound up enough that what he gets from Dan’s look is nothing close to flattery. Jones is pretty worried he’s about to be torn to shreds with a look like that. 

It’s the kind of looks he’s seen in rabid dogs before they run down a hare. 

Dan pulls a face at him; dramatically down-turned frown and his eyebrows furrowing first downwards, and then, one of them shoots up for his hairline. The finished product is something close to disgruntled inquisitiveness. 

Honestly, it looks like he wants to know things (he is a journalist after all) but is down right irritated at the fact he  _ wants _ to know them. All Jones can do is wait out the facial acrobatics long enough for Dan to decide that his curiosity is more than worth the effort of having to engage Jones in conversation. Another thing he has tried to do as little as possible since moving in. Not only laid back, Ashcroft was a silent but deadly type.

Jones had spent the best part of the first week of their house share trying to ensnare Dan into conversation. He had tried every tactic known to man, from general inquisitiveness to pandering to the whims of Dan’s ego with endlessly flattering comments and questions. He once was so desperate to  _ talk  _ he flat out pretended to be a bit thicker than he actually is just so Dan would have an excuse to explain something to him. A plan that crashed and burned when Dan pointed out Jones was capable of rebuilding computers from scratch he almost certainly knew how to turn off sticky keys on his laptop.

As of yet, he was still waiting to have any semblance of success with any of these methods. Yet here he is, once again, deciding whether to be the one to start the talking lest they suffocate under the weight of this silence. 

“Do you greet all your old friends by punching them?” Dan asks eventually. Jones feels as if he can breathe again. 

He does, however, feel his own lip curling in obvious distaste at the question. “Only the ones that deserve it.” He grumbles, and it's a complete natural instinct to make it sound like a threat. 

He won't say he'd  _ never _ hit Dan, he's only known the man a month, there's a very real possibility he'd eventually tire of this one sided relationship. But he knows it isn't Dan's fault for being curious when his new flatmate returns from a shift at work bruised and bleeding. It's not Dan's fault Jones enjoys talking about himself as much as many people enjoy having teeth pulled. Meaning he hates it, and makes every choice possible to avoid having it happen.

It’s really not Dan’s fault that he was caught in the act of cleaning up his own mess, either. Stupid of him to do this when Dan was home really. 

Following that, Jones thinks that might be it for their interactions. Conversational duty for the day (the week--hell, the month) completed, Jones thinks Dan might now skulk off back to whatever it is he does to keep himself entertained on a day to day basis and leave the younger man alone with his wounded pride and his further wounded face. 

But it's not. Dan is still appraising him like some sort of strange creature and Jones is fast running out of the patience to question it. Instead he moves to keep himself busy. Bleeding stopped, he pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugs it up over his head and tosses the stained mess to the side so he can turn and flick the shower on. The water takes a moment to heat and he can assume Dan is about to make a swift exit with this rather obvious hint he's giving for him to fuck off. However it doesn't happen: Dan watches him the whole time like a wolf might watch a lamb. 

Jones has never been much of a lamb kind of person. "You wanna take a picture, it'll last longer."

Dan's face twists into perverse amusement. "I'm starting to see how you get yourself into fights."

"Firstly," Jones, shamelessly, drops his hands to his waistband. He's never been good at backing down from a challenge, and if Dan is going to stand there while he undresses he will not lose this game of chicken. Watch him bare himself just so he can say he didn't _ lose _ . "It wasn't a  _ fight.  _ Secondly, you make a lot of assumptions for someone who claims to be a well rounded and thorough investigative-journalist."

Amusement stalls in its tracks. Dan's eyes pinch into discontent and Jones feels it permeate the air like an oil spill in the ocean. Thick and uncomfortable. Posing a great risk to any nearby life. He certainly hasn't lived with Dan long enough to be able to predict his moods to any accurate level. 

And this feels dangerous. 

Because he's accidentally outed a pastime of his that Dan is  _ not  _ going to like. 

"You read my articles."

Jones can't find a reasonable excuse for that. At all. What could he possibly say? I was curious? No, he knew who Dan was when he met him. Dan had reviewed his music (rather unfairly). He was bored? Jones doesn't get bored. He just happened to find it? Jones didn't exactly spend a lot of time on a computer, it wasn't his preferred method of technological entertainment. 

So instead he pretends he hasn't heard the question. He turns his face away, unbuckles his belt and slides it free from around his hips. Even while not looking at him he can feel how Dan's eyes track the movement. At least he doesn't seem mad, more… Dare he say, anxious. Jones can’t handle anxiety in other people, so he just forces himself into action. Sticks a hand under the spray of water to check the temperature and then, when he’s happy with it, he turns and finds Dan is standing a little closer than he was a moment ago. Jones can feel heat radiating from his body against the bare skin of his chest. 

Dan reaches for his damp hand, holds it between two of his larger ones and turns it over in curiosity. “Your knuckles are beat to shit.” He says, rather obviously. “So you hit him back then?” 

“You’re making assumptions again.” Jones scolds. Clears his throat. “Assuming he swung first.” 

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person to lose control that easily.” 

The air around them gets a little thicker. Dan’s still holding onto his hand and he’s refusing to break eye contact. Something about the way his mouth forms the word control makes Jones swallow thickly. 

And then it’s over. Jones’ body starts to subconsciously tilt towards in expectation of  _ something, _ but there’s nothing there for it to mett. Dan is gone. He rinses his own hands under the sink to rid himself of any further trace of this ever having happened, and the spell is broken. Jones is left cold and hovering uncertainly in the middle of the bathroom. “Don’t make a habit of this, okay?” the Northern man instructs sternly. 

“Why?” Jones smirks bitterly at him. “Worried?” 

“If I was drunker, I’d say yes.” 

Surprised, Jones falters. Glances askance to his own reflection in the mirror. “What  _ are  _ you saying then?” 

“That I’m not making a habit of playing nurse.” 

And then he’s gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever I can be found on tumblr:
> 
> @queen-boo / @anciientboosh


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